


make it to tomorrow

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: teen wolf rare character bingo. [20]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Community: rounds_of_kink, Drift Compatibility, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Jaeger Pilots, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: After all is said and done and the Breach is closed, Isaac and Scott share a moment in the catwalks above the Shatterdome, away from the victory party below.(or, the Pacific Rim AU with "I'm so happy that we're alive" hand jobs.)





	make it to tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 'robots' square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo Card and for Rounds of Kink's 2017 Summer Heat Mini Round, using the prompts _scrape & slip_ and the kink _loss of control._

Mere hours ago, the Shatterdome had echoed with the sounds of an army prepping for war; yelling in half a dozen languages, the screech of metal against metal, the frantic, repetitive thud of booted feet crossing the expanse of the room over and over again. It’d been chaos; organized chaos, albeit, but chaos nonetheless. 

Now, the vast space is filled with the sounds of joyous victory. 

Isaac isn’t sure who is in charge of the music, but the speakers that are normally reserved for broadcasting announcements and orders are now spilling out pounding electronica tracks, the volume so high that the bass seems to reverberate through every surface he lays his hands upon. Drunken whoops and joyous yells break through the music every so often, along with the sharp crack of a cork exploding from a bottle of champagne. 

For being an active military base, there seems to be a _lot_ of the latter lying around. 

Isaac’s sure that, if he ventured down from the catwalk, he wouldn’t have to ask for a drink. They’d shove full bottles in his arms, pour it down his throat, probably drench him in it. It’s all too possible that he’d end up on someone’s shoulders, carted around the room like a trophy or idol. 

Some of the other pilots would absolutely love that. He’s sure they’re already down there having the time of their lives. 

That’s all the more reason for him to stay away. 

As far as he can tell, he’s the only one up in the catwalks; all the mechanics and technicians that usually fill them have abandoned their posts, are probably down below soaking in the revelry. Not that Isaac blames them; there’s nothing for them for them to be working on, after all. Every last one of the cavernous Jaeger bays is empty, their normal occupants either abandoned in the bay or ripped to pieces or blown to bits in another dimension. 

Hopefully, they'll never be occupied again. 

He has to believe they’ll never be occupied again, that what happened today is a permanent fix, because otherwise everything they did, all the people they _lost_ -

(and that is not a line of thought he wants to pursue right now, because while he’s only been at the Shatterdome for two weeks, barely enough time to get to know anyone, he knows that they were good people, people with lives and hopes and dreams for after the apocalypse was thwarted, people who deserved to _live_ )

-was for nothing. 

Abruptly, the sound of nearby footsteps thudding against metal breaks through the music, and he pulls his gaze away from the deep shadows of the bay that previously held Alpha Wolf, which is now entombed in the murky waters of the ocean. Most of the overhead lights have been switched off, so it’s a few moments before Isaac can actually make out the figure of someone coming towards him. He gets ready to defend his absence from the party below, starts combing through excuses in search of one that won’t just lead to more invasive questions that he doesn’t feel up to answering. 

Thankfully, before he actually has to decide on an excuse, he recognizes the figure, and he relaxes back against the sturdy railing. 

“I figured you were up here,” Scott says, smiling as he leans up beside Isaac. There are three stitches holding together his eyebrow, and butterfly bandages dot his forehead and cheeks. Two of the fingers on his left hand are bound together in a splint, and dark bruises march up and down both arms, extending from his wrists to where the sleeve of his tee bisects his bicep. 

All things considered, the fact that he’s in one piece, that they’re _both_ in one piece, is something of a minor miracle. 

“How was the party?” Isaac asks, sliding down to rest on the ground with his legs stretched out and his back pressed against the railing. His ankle bone is bruised, and although the painkillers that were thrust upon him in the medical bay are top-grade, it’s probably best to get off it sooner rather than later. 

“Skipped over most of it, actually,” Scott says, sinking down beside him, a wince momentarily passing over his face. “Last I saw, they were hoisting Jackson around on their shoulders.” 

“I’m sure he’s absolutely loving that,” Isaac mutters. 

“He probably won’t even remember it tomorrow, if he keeps drinking like he was.”

It’s the last either of them say for what feels like hours. Isaac isn’t sure when Scott’s head drops down onto his shoulder, but he follows suit by carefully lowering his own head down so that he doesn’t end up resting his ear on any of Scott’s battle scars. Their hands end up entangled together shortly after, and Isaac finds himself entranced by the way their fingers slot together, like they were solely designed for that purpose.

“It’s so quiet,” Scott eventually murmurs, the words washing over where Isaac’s collarbone branches away from the collar of his t-shirt. The Shatterdome is still echoing with noise; if anything, the music and yelling has only increased in volume, but Isaac knows what Scott means. 

Without the drift connecting them, without Scott sharing every single inch and hidden corner of his brain, his own mind seems painfully quiet and empty. 

“It is.” If he concentrates hard, closes his eyes and does his best to block out the sounds of revelry filling every inch of space, he can still feel _something_ connecting his mind to Scott’s. Something thin and tenuous, like a loose thread gently unraveling from a well-worn sweater. 

He wonders how long they have before that thread reaches its end and tears away for good. 

He wonders what that will change between them. _If_ that will change anything.

He hopes with everything he has that it doesn’t. Scott’s the first person in years that he’s been able to depend on, and even though they’ve known each other for all of two weeks, he’s not sure if he knows how to go back to being on his own again. 

Even if he was interrogated, he wouldn’t be able to definitively answer which of them leans in first; what he knows, and what matters most, is that their mouths meet and immediately meld together like they’ve been doing so for years. 

They don’t stay leaning against the railing for long; Scott slowly slumps over, until he’s stretched out on his back, and Isaac is obliged to follow him. Thankfully, the catwalk is more than wide enough to safely accommodate them so, once they’ve moved safely away from the edge, they pick up right where they left off. The only difference is that, this time, Isaac is slotted between Scott’s legs, and Scott’s right hand is fisted tightly in his hair, tugging slightly whenever Isaac shifts. 

He was starting to think that his hair was getting too long, but he’s definitely reconsidering that notion. 

The rough metal of the catwalk scrapes against his knees, even through the thick fabric of his pants, and he can’t imagine that it feels comfortable against Scott’s undoubtedly bruised back. But when he pulls away for a moment, before he can even part his lips to ask, Scott shakes his head fiercely. 

“I don’t want to move,” he says, tightening his fingers in Isaac’s hair. “I’m fine. Kiss me.” 

That’s all the assurance Isaac needs to dive back in. 

Part of him thinks that they should be talking about this, trying to work through things before they step over a line that they can’t come back from, but that part only remains in the forefront of his mind for a few moments. The last few weeks have been an absolute exercise in control, in keeping himself carefully between the lines, so that he didn’t jeopardize the mission. The drift was no better, because for every errant thought that slipped through, every memory of his father or every half-thought out musing about what Scott would sound like choking back a moan, there were dozens, _hundreds_ more that he had to keep hidden away. 

He’s tired of holding himself back. 

The others down below are celebrating their victory with rivers of booze. 

Isaac is going to celebrate by letting himself _go._

His own various aches and pains let themselves be known across his body as he rolls his hips down against Scott’s, but he does his best to ignore the urge to pull away when Scott’s fingers press into a bruise or trail over a line of fresh stitches. When he braces his forehead against Scott’s to take a breath, the butterfly bandages holding Scott together scrape against his skin, and he silently apologizes for any pain he’s causing before he dives back in. 

By the time Scott’s fingers yank open his button and zipper, Isaac already feels like he’s walking along the edge, whether it’s from the adrenaline that has yet to totally wane from his system or from the sheer fact that he’s alive, they’re both _alive_ , still living and breathing and able to touch each other.

“I hope you aren’t expecting me to last,” he laughs against Scott’s swollen mouth, words trailing into a gasp as Scott’s fingers slide past the elastic of his boxers. 

“I was going to say the same thing,” Scott grins, arching his hips into the line of Isaac’s thigh. “There’s always later for that.” 

_Later._

Hearing that word pass from Scott’s lips officially shuts down the last remnants of concern in Isaac’s mind. 

When Scott’s fingers wrap around Isaac’s cock, Isaac’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to return the favor, but for a few moments, all he can focus on is the feeling of Scott’s calloused palm, the slick slide of his thumb slipping across the head of him. It’s just on the right side of overwhelming, and he thrusts his hips into the loose circle of Scott’s fist, bites back a groan as his mind finally sparks back to life. He sits back slightly, putting more weight onto his knees, so that he can better access the zipper of Scott’s pants. His fingers, normally so sure of themselves, fumble and skitter, until he finally manages to get the button open with a frustrated growl. 

“Take your time,” Scott says quietly, resting his free hand on Isaac’s face. The metal of his splint is warm against Isaac’s cheekbone and he twists to press his lips to it, another silent apology. 

The real thing can wait until later. 

He gets Scott’s zipper down with more ease, yanks his pants down his hips until he can get his hand inside. It’s far from a great angle; warning twinges of pain shoot through his wrist, but he ignores them. 

What’s a little more pain, after all? 

In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about finding a way to work through a wrist cramp; before the warnings can turn into the real thing, Scott spurts onto Isaac’s fingers with a sudden gasp. His head drops back against the catwalk with an alarmingly loud thud that seems to echo. The grip of his fingers around Isaac’s cock grows tighter, and he twists his wrist in a unfamiliar way that makes fireworks go off behind Isaac’s eyes. 

He comes with his teeth pressed into Scott’s bottom lip and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

Who the blood belongs to, he couldn’t say. 

Once he’s gotten his breath back, he wipes his hand off on the thigh of his pants and carefully lowers himself to the ground at Scott’s side, wincing as every ache and pain that he’s been ignoring makes itself known with a vengeance, painkillers be damned. Scott wipes his own hand off on the hem of his shirt before carefully tucking himself back into his pants. There’s a fine sheen of sweat covering his face, and when he rolls his head to face Isaac, so close that their noses brush together, a smile more radiant than the nuclear heart of a Jaeger splits his mouth. 

“We’re here,” he says. One of the bandages dotting his forehead is slowly turning red, the skin underneath freshly split open. “We’re _here_.”

Now that the adrenaline has started to melt away, replaced by pain and rational thought, Isaac is ready to admit that, at some point, they’ll have to talk further. They can’t just ignore what happened today, all of it; they need to mourn for the people they lost, find their place in a world no longer on the edge of disaster, figure out how they fit together without the drift to tie them together. 

But all of that can wait for tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Isaac says, dropping one hand to Scott’s chest, right above his pounding, beautifully strong heart. “We’re here.” 

He leaves the _I’m not going anywhere_ unspoken, but he trusts that somehow, Scott hears it all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
